Blame It On the Alcohol
by Perdue
Summary: john and dave get drunk after finals and shenanigans occur. dave/john os.


ok this is a birthday present for **ParsleyFeline** omg everyone don't hate me it's past 2 and idk what i'm doing

**Warnings: **drunk shenanigans

**Disclaimer: **haha i used hussie's name in this i feel accomplished

**Blame It On the Alcohol  
><strong>_-_

Finals were _over_, and after getting their respective asses kicked by upper level biology and physics courses, John and Dave decided to take the night in, mix some drinks and play the drinking game to Ferris Bueller's Day Off.

It was about the ninth time Ferris turned to talk to the camera, and Dave and John both knocked back shots, laughing uncontrollably.

"How duzzee even know we're – _hic_ – here?" John half-giggled, half-slurred. Dave went to pat him on the shoulder and missed by a foot, almost falling off of the couch.

"I dunno, man. Maybe he's fuckin' psychic or some shit."

Dave usually prided himself on his ability to hold alcohol like it was apple juice. Granted, he had a lot of practice with hussies always buying him drinks at the clubs he djed at on weekends. But it had been a long quarter, and he wasn't really holding back, and was consequently feeling _pretty _hammered.

Through the haze of alcohol, he was vaguely aware that this might be a problem. It was one thing to be a little buzzed around a bunch of fake blonde with orange skin skanks and so-straight-you-just-have-to-suspect frat boys, none of whom held any interest for Dave other than he was getting a portion of their money. It was another entirely to be drunk with and in such close proximity to John Egbert, who was now leaning his head on Dave's shoulder, breath wet and hot on Dave's collarbone.

"I don' think I can drink muchsh more, Dave," he slurred, arms moving around Dave's waist.

John was probably the biggest lightweight Dave had ever drunk with, though he'd certainly never had enough to get him this sloshed. And now he was getting all clingy… Maybe he could blame it on the alcohol later, but Dave didn't fight the urge to lean his face down and press it against the top of John's head, breathing in the scent of his hair.

"That's fine, bro. We'll just say that I won the game and be done with it, sound good?"

John's reaction was to sit up quickly to argue, which ended in him banging his head against Dave's face, eliciting a stream of curses from both of them and blood running from Dave's nose.

"Shit, Egbert, you wanna let a bro know when you're planning on beating him up?" Dave ground out, and John tried to shake his own wince of pain.

"I'm ssooo sorry," he sputtered, and grabbed Dave's hand with his own clammy one, making to get up as he continued, "Come onnn, you need to clean up in the bathroom." But he barely made one step before stumbling to the ground, only not hitting his head because Dave still somehow possessed the dexterity to grab him and keep him somewhat upright.

"Holy shit, bro, don't hurt yourself."

Naturally, due to John's excessive drunkenness, Dave ended up having to help _him_ to the bathroom despite being the one with the bloody nose. But John, being the one with the incessant, inherent urge to be helpful, sat on the floor between Dave's legs (who was sitting on the toilet with the seat down) and kept a large wad of toilet paper pressed against Dave's nose, his elbows resting on Dave's thighs.

"Shit'sh not really stoppin," John murmured when he pulled the wad away after a few minutes, already soaked through. Dave looked at the glop of blood and boogers and thought he should probably be embarrassed, but John seemed totally unfazed, so he tried to put it out of his mind. "You're gonna…sstain yer shirt. Look, you got blood ullover it."

"Heh, there's blood on yours too." John looked down in surprise and froze for a moment before beginning to sway a little. "Bro, you okay?"

"Just a lil tired…" He leaned forward and rested his forehead against Dave's stomach, but moved away slowly after a moment. "The blood isstill..wet…"

Dave stared at the top of his head for about a minute. This… this was definitely bad. If he were any less drunk, he would have disregarded the usual urges and gave John a glass of water and sent him to sleep this shit off. But now—now he was feeling this grating, nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach that refused to go away, and his hands shook a little as he reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it away onto the floor.

"There," he said, voice low and scratchy. He tried to force down the butterflies that danced around in his stomach as John smiled his drunken smile and leaned against his bare stomach.

They stayed that way for almost an hour, John snoozing lightly and probably drooling a little bit on his stomach, and Dave holding his own toilet paper to his nose. Eventually the bleeding stopped, and Dave moved carefully to throw the used tissues into the trashcan before leaning down and gently placing his hand on the back of John's neck.

"Hey," he whispered, and John stirred a little and looked up, and Dave realized just how close their faces were when John's sleep-hazed eyes met his.

"Dave…" he mumbled, and said coolkid froze when John reached up a little and placed an open-mouthed kiss on his lips.

Under normal circumstances, Dave might have backed the fuck away, a whole litany of excuses trailing after him—_he's drunk, he doesn't know what he's doing, there's no way he would ever kiss me sober, I could never kiss back because then he'd know_. But tonight he'd had enough to drink to keep him from doing so, and instead leaned into it, the hand still resting on the back of John's neck pulling him closer and one hand moving up into John's hair. Teeth clacked and tongues clashed, tasting like stale alcohol but not making it any less perfect.

After a few minutes, John's hands began wandering, and Dave kind of wanted to lose his shit right then and there, but something in the back of his head started going off, and somehow through the alcohol haze he knew that he couldn't let this go further.

He pulled away from the kiss and moved his hands to John's to keep them from going any farther up his thighs. "John," he murmured, trying not to pant. It took him a moment to resign himself to what he would never have, and he closed his eyes, eyebrows creasing a bit over the sunglasses. "You should go to bed. You've had too much, bro."

John simply nodded and let Dave steady him and walk him to his bedroom, take off his bloodstained shirt and lay him on his side under the covers, a bowl for puke next to him and a glass of water on his bedside table.

When all of the sleeping preparations were completed, and John was already unconscious and drooling on his pillow, Dave turned out the lights and gave him one last look before heading out to clean up the living room.


End file.
